Chapter Text
Chapter 1: Prologue - Let's Do It (Let's Fall In Love)
“Pack all your shit,” Valentino spits, storming into Angel’s dressing room with an exaggerated flourish, his wings expanding out to make the room, and likely Angel, feel smaller.
Angel is on his couch, his vision is blurry from the cocktail of his namesake mixed with a bump coke, to keep him conscious, and a little black tar heroin; not to mention the edible one of his co-stars snuck him while their fluffers were hard at work is also starting to kick in. He might need a little more coke. Maybe Travis can spare him some.
“Huh?” Angel mumbles, his blurred head still not quite able to focus, but he did hear Val’s words, it is just taking a second for him to process. He’s ninety percent sure Val didn’t say it in Spanish. Val is telling him to pack, so does that mean Angel has finally succeeded? Is he finally broken enough that Val is done with him?
It’s been a little less than six weeks since Vox’s downfall, and more importantly since Val has taken over as the head of Voxtek and the Vees. A little less than six weeks since Angel walked away from the Hazbin Hotel and any hope of redemption, not that he’s ever going to be redeemable. All that hard fucking work and realizing he has to unmake the sin that got him here in the first fucking place?
What a joke.
But, even though he’s no longer a candidate for redemption, Angel does have to admit that, all the work he put in thanks to the do-gooder Princess of Hell, Angel had started to like himself again, and he was actually making friends, and…
None of that fucking matters, does it? Because none of it was fucking real. A puppet for Vox and the Vees, a fucking spy, and every single fucking choice he’s made since he started staying at the hotel… Was any of it actually his choice? Was Angel making friends, or was he just reaping the benefits of developing these relationships to provide intel to the fucking Vees?
At the end of the day, Angel is just an addict, a fucking whore, and a pathetic loser who hasn’t gotten to make an active decision in his life since the day he sold his soul to Valentino in that strip club all those years ago. But was that really his choice too? Angel found himself in Hell, with this insane body and the leers of countless men, so he had been using said body to scrape by, get enough money to pay for drugs, the shitty motel he made his home…
It was Los Angeles all over again.
Val saw his desperation and jumped, giving Angel a deal that sounded too good to be true, because of fucking course it was, and Angel signed that fucking contract after a little negotiation. The last time he saw or thought of his human name, and got to work. Fuck, the amount of dicks he’s got fucked by in this body since he got here… Angel lost count when it reached quadruple digits. He wasn’t innocent on earth either, he’d lost count there too, but mostly because of the drugs and not the number. He didn't remember any of the men on earth except one.
There had been one man who… could have changed everything for him. Well, and technically, he did.
*****
Anthony was a good Italian boy, and son of the ruthless Carmine Galente, the vicecapo for the Bonanno family. His father helped orchestrate the murder of Salvatore Maranzano, allowing Joe Bonanno to take control of his operations after the Castellammarese War that made Salvatore the capo di tutti i capi; something that pissed off a lot of power-hungry men, specifically Lucky Luciano.
As the “Cigar’s” second oldest son, Tony Galente wasn’t expected to take any sort of role outside a soldato and fence for the “import” crew. Anthony’s only job was to make sure the deals and transfers went through without a hitch. He occasionally had to lure an opp or infami to be taken out, but most of the time he was just a fence.
Still, there were expectations and standards as a member of one of the five families, no matter how hard he worked, and one of those was to not be a queer. He had to keep that part of himself, his life, hidden beyond even himself. Despite the leers he would occasionally get while on the job, Anthony never acted on it, paranoid they’d go running right to his father. As a small-framed man with wide feminine hips, almost shock white, wavy blond hair always Marcel Waved in S curls that his twin Molly showed him how to do, a fair cream colored skin tone and bright mismatched eyes; one brown and one blue; Anthony was ogled more times than even he realized.
While a part of him was dying to know what it would feel like to be with a man, he was always too scared to try anything, especially with any of the thugs in their employ. Anthony could take care of himself, but he didn’t trust none of them to not squeal. Honestly, he was gonna just accept he’d spend the entirety of his life a goddamn virgin, and that was when he met… him.
When Anthony was nineteen, getting close to his twentieth birthday, it was during prohibition, and part of the operations that the Bonanno family had taken over was distributing liquor to different speakeasies in New York. The Galentes were assigned Harlem, funneling gin and whiskey to Black and Tan joints, one of the only types of places where segregation wasn’t really a thing.
His father always sent Anthony to monitor these transactions, because pigs roamed the streets like crazy in Harlem, which was pretty ironic when it was white folks who ran the crime syndicate. When it came to other parts of the city, racism worked in the mob’s favor and while Carmine Galente appreciated the money of Black folks, he would always be an old racist prick from Sicily.
Honestly? Those were Anthony’s favorite jobs. Monitor the transaction, and be a lookout or even be a distraction for any pigs putting their damn snouts where they don’t belong. While the risk was higher, so was the reward, because he’d get to hang out after, enjoy some drinks, and dance, and pretend he was a normal guy for a couple of hours.
The night his life changed, and set Anthony on the path that would eventually become his downfall, was three days before his twentieth birthday. The job was for delivery to Connie’s Inn and it all went off without a hitch. There was an awards ceremony or some shit for the NYPD, so there were almost no patrols that night, and his crew was wrapping the delivery up in under an hour.
When Matteo and Enzo, two of his soldiers, nodded for Anthony to go inside with them, he waved them off and pulled out his silver cigarette case. Anthony never liked smoking inside, because it was a guarantee his clothes would reek. He made his way to the small alleyway next to the joint, and leaned against the brick wall.
That was when a car pulled up alongside the curb right in front of the alleyway, a beat up looking black Buick with scratches, a dented bumper, and mismatched tires. The doors swung open in unison and a bunch of large, dark skinned men started to pour out, a couple of them carrying big cases, while one of the guys went for the trunk. Under other circumstances, this entire parade would cause Anthony to pull out a gun, but it was very clearly the jazz band playing at Connie’s that night.
When Anthony saw the bass fiddle case, he couldn’t help but chuckle. His guys used that type of case too, but to hold Tommy guns, not actual instruments. He watched quietly as the five men proceeded to unload all the instruments and that familiar pang of jealousy gripped his heart. What he would’ve given to be able to spend his nights singing like Bessie Smith or Ivie Anderson with a band like this.
But his father made it damn clear that Anthony would never get out of the family business, outside of a bullet right between the eyes. With a sigh, Anthony pulled a cigarette from the case and pressed it between his lips. The matchbook in his pocket was smushed, and when he tried to light one, the damn handles would bend. Even using his fingernail to hold the head against the striker was getting him nowhere.
Just when he was about to give up and head inside, a warm orange flame appeared at the end of his cigarette and Anthony gasped when he looked up and locked eyes with the warm, honey gaze of a breathtaking man who was holding up a silver lighter.
The man’s skin was dark brown, his jet black curls cut high and tight, with a fade on the side. He had a goatee around his mouth, a wide nose peppered in freckles, and a jawline that could cut fucking glass. When the man smiled, revealing a small gap between his two front teeth, his cheeks appled. The man was broader than Anthony, and at least a couple of inches taller. He was dressed in a black button up shirt and red vest, and in his other hand he was carrying a large rectangular black case.
Christ! Anthony had never seen a more beautiful man in his life. After his brain registered what was happening, Anthony leaned in close, using his fingers to guide the cigarette to the flame, and drew back with a grateful exhale of smoke. “Thank you, Mister…” he said, lingering with the hope of getting a name.
“Mister?” the god of a man said through a deep gravelly laugh. His voice was a baritone that made Anthony feel tingly in all sorts of places. “You can call me Henry,” he said as he pocketed the lighter and held his hand out to Anthony for a shake.
“Anthony, but you can call me Tony,” he responded in kind, taking the handshake. Henry’s hands were smooth, apart from a notable callus on his right thumb.
When Henry let go of his hand, the loss Anthony felt was immediate. “Nice to meet ya’,” Henry said as he lifted his case and nodded to the club. “Will we see you in there, Tony?”
Despite the chill in the air, Anthony’s face instantly warmed, and he could only hope any color in his cheeks could be blamed on the cold. “Yeah… yeah, you will.”
“Good,” Henry said as he stepped around Anthony to knock on the side door to their left. A beat later, the door was pushed open and Henry grabbed it, holding it open as he whistled for his bandmates to start going inside.
Anthony stood there, and as each guy lugged their instrument inside, he never once broke the intense gaze he was holding with Henry.
While Henry spoke to each of the band members as they passed, he never broke their gaze either, and that warmth returned to Anthony’s cheeks with a vengeance.
By the time the last guy had shuffled inside, Anthony was done with his smoke and dropped the butt to the ground, stomping it out with the heel of his black oxford.
Instead of Henry following his bandmates, he stayed there, keeping the door open. “Want the best seat in the house? Ain’t nothin’ better than backstage.”
Damn, he couldn’t have contained the smile that curled his lips even if he tried. Anthony stepped forward and held his hand out expectantly over where Henry was holding his case. “Well, if you’re gonna give me the best seat, you should put me ta’ work.”
“Baby, while I appreciate the offer, a pretty thing like you should never have to do any heavy liftin’,” Henry said, returning the smile.
The way he called Anthony “baby” sent a chill down his spine. He was pretty sure Henry was flirting, and for the first time, Anthony found he didn’t want to brush a guy off. So, he stepped closer and said, “Charmer,” before he grabbed the case handle, enjoying the brush of their fingers.
He easily took the instrument and smirked at the impressed eyebrow quirk that earned him from Henry. While Anthony may have looked small, weak, he was anything but. Lifting cases of booze and other illicit substances since he was fourteen had given him strength that was pretty advantageous in his role, seeing as most people would underestimate him. Anthony lifted the case and rested it on his shoulder. “But lookin’ pretty ain’t the only thing I’m good at, Henry.”
Henry’s gaze roamed appreciatively over Anthony’s form and he nodded slowly. “Good to know, Tony.”
As they walked inside together, Anthony looked up at the case before he turned to Henry with a curious smile. “So, whaddya play?” The case was surprisingly light, but considering the size, he couldn’t quite figure out what was inside.
“Sax,” he said smoothly before he stepped in front of Anthony and leaned in close to take his instrument back. When the thing was off Anthony’s shoulder, Henry had not stepped back, their faces were impossibly close.
The tension in the air between them was thick, electric, and Anthony stood there, with baited breath, waiting to see what Henry would do next. Despite his lack of experience, he knew he would do anything Henry asked.
That was when Henry lifted his free hand up to Anthony’s face, and with the pad of his thumb, dragged it along Anthony’s cheek.
Anthony let out a soft gasp.
Henry stepped back then, taking his warmth and hand with him. He said, “You had some ash on your cheek.”
The urge to light up again right that second and just tap cigarette ash all over his face was overwhelming. Instead, Anthony rubbed the back of his neck and said a soft, “Thanks.”
“Yo, Hal! Get your ass over here and help us set up!”
Henry chuckled and pointed to a table where a couple of beautiful Black women were sitting, just behind the curtain to the left of the stage. “You can sit with Loretta and Darlene, they’ll do right by you, Tony.” And with that, he carried his instrument onto the small wooden stage that was unlit, and helped the other men set up.
When Anthony made his way to, what he would later find out was the “wife table”, he approached with a kind smile and a nod to the two women. Loretta had a robust figure, and was wearing a sparkly white dress that showed off her assets, complimenting her warmer brown skin tone. She had obsidian eyes and a bright smile accented by the cherry red lipstick she was wearing, her hair styled in the more modern loose curl fad of the new decade. Darlene had a darker complexion and was dressed a little more modestly, wearing a blue floral day dress, and her hair short-cropped and in fingerwaves, similarly to Anthony’s own. She wasn’t wearing makeup, not that she needed it.
Darlene held her hand out to introduce herself, and then Loretta, before she offered the open seat to Anthony.
“Oh, Hal. He always did prefer white meat,” Loretta said, snorting into her drink.
Darlene rolled her eyes and swatted at Loretta’s hand. “You hush.” She turned to him and said, "Don't mind her, you seem nice.”
Anthony eyed them curiously. “Am I the white meat?”
“Boy, if you were any whiter, you’d be see through,” Loretta said with a cackle.
When he looked up, he caught Henry staring at him, and they shared another intense gaze until one of his bandmates hit him in the shoulder to grab his attention.
Anthony felt his cheeks heat again and returned his attention to the conversation, not that he was listening to it. For the first time ever, Anthony felt like he belonged somewhere, felt safe even, and who woulda thought it would be at a wife table of a jazz band at a Black and Tan?
While nothing happened between them that first night, other than Anthony falling a little bit in love as he watched Henry play that saxophone with such passion, he knew this man was going to change his life. When Henry invited Anthony to their next gig, it wasn’t even a question if he would attend. Before long, Anthony was a regular at the wife table for the Blue Notes.
It was the night of the fifth gig that Anthony attended when the tension between them reached a breaking point. At the Lenox Club, the Blue Notes performed to a lively crowd that demanded encores until the club closed. Because it was so late, Henry and Anthony offered to stay behind and gather all the equipment so the rest of the band could go home, get some shut eye. Hell, even the owner left Henry the key to lock up, he was so done for the night.
Anthony was on the stage, staring out at where the crowd would be if it was a full house. Surrounded by all the instruments and equipment. He closed his eyes and imagined what it would be like to stand on this stage and sing for the crowd. That was when the chords of a familiar Cole Porter song started being played on a familiar saxophone.
As he turned around, Anthony couldn’t help but smile as he watched Henry play so effortlessly, winking at him as he stepped forward, continuing the song. Whatever possessed Anthony, he would never know, but he started singing the words,
“Birds do it, bees do it
Even educated fleas do it
Let's do it, let's fall in love…”
Henry’s eyebrows popped up, but he didn’t stop playing, and in fact, got way more into it, as though urging Anthony to keep going.
Anthony grabbed the unplugged microphone and started singing into it as he kept watching Henry.
“In Spain, the best upper sets do it
Lithuanians and Letts do it
Let's do it, let's fall in love…”
As Henry stepped closer, not missing a single note, Anthony did as well, the song progressing into every new verse as the distance between them lessened with each step. By the time Anthony was singing the final verse, they were less than half a foot from each other.
Henry lowered his saxophone and he breathed out a soft, “Damn, Tony. I didn’t know you could sing like that.”
That damn heat filled Anthony’s cheeks again at the compliment and he ducked Henry’s gaze. “I ain’t nothin’ special.”
“I disagree there,” Henry said as he carefully laid his saxophone on the drummer's stool. He stepped even closer, and cupped Anthony’s face in both his hands. “You’re fuckin’ perfect.” And before Anthony could respond, Henry captured Anthony’s lips in the softest, sweetest kiss.
Despite the fact that there was no longer any music playing, the drum of his heartbeat and the deep groan that escaped Henry was better than any Count Basie number. Their connection was a concert all its own and Anthony clung to Henry’s strong arms as the crescendo slowly started to build with a lingering intensity. Those lips were firm yet soft, and as the chords came to an end, Anthony savored the silence and knew he would never, ever, experience a kiss like this again in his life.
After that first kiss, the attraction Anthony and Henry felt for each other intensified, and it did not take long for them to learn each other carnally, the Greek Vice as some of the older men in the family would call it.
It happened when Anthony was given a rare night off. It was likely because his father was in deep with his mother, because the dumb bitch his father was screwing had left her lipstick in his car. Carmine Galente had a lot of beggin’ and pleadin’ to do, so he banished all the kids from the house for the night. It was a bullshit game for his father, as far as Anthony was concerned, because this happened every couple of years, and his mother always took the bastard back. Not that she had much of a choice as a mob wife, and at least she made him work for it.
Anyway, his mother’s loss was Anthony’s gain, and Henry had the night off too. He had only been round to the man’s tiny apartment in a modest walkup in El Barrio once before, but it had been with the entirety of the band, and the other wives. After he used a payphone to call the partyline for the building, Henry had excitedly invited Anthony to stay the night with him, and Anthony felt a thrill of excitement too.
When he reached the fifth floor, he ran his hand through his hair, which was loose and messy, and let out a nervous exhale. He’d stopped styling his hair because Henry casually mentioned how much he enjoyed carding his hands through it. Anthony raised his hand to knock when suddenly the door was whipped open.
Henry greeted him with a broad smile and wearing a frilly floral apron over his button up white shirt and gray slacks. “Hey, beautiful,” he practically purred as he grabbed Anthony by the wrist and pulled him into the apartment. After he closed the door behind them, he drew Anthony in for a quick, sweet kiss. “Just in time. Dinner’s ready.”
“You cooked for me?” Anthony said in surprise, shrugging off his jacket and draping it over the back of the small, slightly ripped loveseat. Henry’s place was small, a studio, maybe four hundred square feet, with a couple of bookshelves next to a small couch, a dinette set they had found sitting outside after a nearby diner closed, a full sized bed in the far corner, and a kitchen that could barely fit two people in it.
The smell of whatever Henry was cooking was divine, and Anthony’s stomach rumbled.
“I hope you give me some grace, but I tried my hand at a bolognese,” Henry said as he returned to the small counter space in the kitchen and began to plate it up.
Anthony was pretty much in love with the guy, but the fact he cooked him Italian food… Oh, Anthony was done for. He took a seat at the dinette set and braced his elbow on the table, resting his chin on his hand as he watched Henry. “Brave of ya’ to cook Italian for an Italian.”
Henry chuckled and proceeded to grate some fresh parmesan on each plate of spaghetti. “Well, this will either make or break us, I’ll understand if you can’t continue to walk out with me after tonight.” He carried the plates to the table, and after placing them down, went and grabbed a bottle of red wine off the counter.
But Anthony was having a hard time concentrating, because Henry just said they were dating, and he felt giddy, and somehow even more in love than he was before. “Well, you didn’t chill the red, so you’re off to a good start.”
“You scarred me for life, baby. I’ll never chill red again,” Henry said, flashing him a bright grin.
At the Blue Notes’ third gig Anthony attended, Henry had a cooler with some booze, and when he pulled out a bottle of pinot noir, Anthony gasped in horror. He proceeded to go off on a tirade about why red should never, ever be cold. Everyone stared at him like he’d lost his damn mind, except for Henry, who looked a little in love.
Anthony laughed and said, “Such a scaredy cat!”
Henry rolled his eyes, but his smile was still broad and he poured them each a glass before taking the seat next to him, holding his glass up to Anthony in a toast. “Here’s to a night alone for once,” he said.
“Saluti!” Anthony said as he clinked their glasses together. He took a sip of the wine before he braced his other hand on Henry’s firm thigh, gently rubbing up and down. “Alright, let’s see if I need to break up with you.” He placed his glass down and picked up the fork, twirling the pasta against the side of the plate until he got a decent mouthful. As he drew the fork to his lips, Henry was watching him with the cutest damn hopeful expression Anthony had ever seen.
Even if it was the worst tasting thing he ever put in his mouth, Anthony knew he’d tell Henry the exact opposite. He wrapped his lips around the bite and couldn’t contain the groan of appreciation that escaped. It was fucking delicious. The sauce was a perfect blend of sweet and spicy, and plenty of garlic, which Anthony loved. Honestly, and as much of a blaspheme it was, this almost tasted better than his Nonna’s sauce.
“Holy shit, Hal. This is so good!” Anthony took another huge forkful and practically shoveled it into his mouth.
Henry’s eyebrows popped up and he said, “You messin’ with me?”
“No!” Anthony said around a mouthful of spaghetti, manners be damned. “I never lie about food,” he added adamantly. Even though he absolutely would have for Henry, he was glad he didn't have to.
Henry leaned in to press a kiss to his cheek, and then they proceeded to eat dinner together, like they were a real married couple. Fuck, what Anthony would have given to live in a world where he and the man he loved could just… be like this. A world where he could hold his hand in public, or hang on his arm whenever the Blue Notes got famous and started going to award shows and red carpets.
What a beautiful idea. Anthony refused to let his sad thoughts bring him down, and finished his food, resisting the urge to lick the plate. When Henry was done, Anthony grabbed the plate from him and made his way to the sink. He rolled his sleeves up and ran the water after he dropped the plug in.
“Baby, you don’t gotta do dishes.”
Anthony craned his neck to look at Henry over his shoulder. “Don’t ya’ know that’s how it works? If you cook, then I clean, and vice versa.”
That was met with a soft chuckle and Henry moved to stand. It wasn’t long before he was wrapping his arms around Anthony’s waist from behind, resting his chin on Anthony’s shoulder. “I’ll remember that.”
Without missing a beat, after dropping the dishes into the hot water, he flipped in Henry’s embrace, draping his arms around this beautiful man’s neck. Anthony looked up into warm hazel eyes and hummed. “Thank you for dinner.”
“Anything for you, baby,” Henry murmured before he captured Anthony’s lips in a kiss. This time it wasn’t chaste. He tilted his head and when Anthony gasped, he deepened the kiss.
The tang of the wine on Henry’s tongue made Anthony’s head swimmy, and he relaxed in Henry’s strong hold as they continued to explore each other. He had never felt such desire before, and Anthony’s hands fisted the material of Henry’s shirt as he let out a soft little moan.
Henry broke the kiss with a breathy gasp. “Baby, you can’t make sounds like that…”
Where the bravery came from, Anthony had no idea, but he gave Henry a pout and said, “You don’t want to draw those sounds outta me?”
Henry’s eyes widened and he lifted Anthony in his arms, carrying him toward the bed.
Anthony let out a surprised laugh and enjoyed being carried. “My big, strong man,” he said as he rested his head against that broad shoulder.
When Henry laid Anthony out on the bed, he moved to sit next to him. His right hand cupped Anthony’s cheek and he looked down at him with such affection behind those beautiful eyes, it was like Henry loved Anthony back. “You ever been with a man, sweetheart?”
As he pushed himself up by his elbows, Anthony looked up at Henry with a sheepish expression. “No. I ain’t never…” He took a deep breath and finished his sentence, “...I’m a virgin.”
Henry nodded, his hand still on Anthony’s cheek, before he leaned in to press a gentle kiss to his lips. “I can wait if you’re not ready, baby.”
And that was the exact words to get Anthony completely on board. The fact that Henry cared enough to not take a step like this, despite the impressive tenting in his slacks… Anthony couldn’t think of a better man to give himself to. Anthony pushed himself to sit up, and he started unbuttoning his shirt, holding Henry’s gaze. “I’m ready. I want you. I want you to be my first.” And only. For the rest of his goddamn life.
That was met with a smile, and he licked his lips as he watched Anthony shrug his shirt from his shoulders. Henry reached out, bracing his palm against Anthony’s chest, right where his heart was. “You’re fuckin’ beautiful, Tony.”
Anthony braced his hand over Henry’s and said, “Kiss me, Hal.”
And he did, again and again, until they were without a stitch of clothing and held in an embrace on the almost too small bed. Henry pressed kiss after kiss down Anthony’s neck, chest, stomach, exploring every inch of exposed skin. Henry was gentle, and caring, and oh, so sweet as he continued to reduce Anthony to a trembling mess with firm lips and soft touches.
Their connection was everything Anthony had ever dreamed of, hoped for, and when they tumbled over the proverbial ledge together, each other’s names on their lips, he knew he was definitely in love with Henry. And Anthony couldn’t wait to spend the rest of his life with this man, even if they had to do it in secret.
They had to be careful, not just because they were queer, but because of their races. As a white man, being with a man was dangerous enough, but falling in love with a Black man was even more dangerous. Especially for Henry, even more so for Henry, and Anthony would do anything to keep his man safe. So, their love was kept in secret, hidden from the world at large, with the exception of Henry’s very accepting bandmates.
Over the next year, Anthony would find ways and moments to steal away to spend an entire night with Henry. They had to be careful how often Anthony came to Henry’s place with all the rubberneckers. Sometimes their nights together happened when the Blue Notes were on the road, and Anthony would spend the night in the motel room with the man he loved. On rare occasions, when Anthony’s family would go off on a business trip without him, because he would use his minimal acting skills to pretend to be sick, he would bring Henry home and they got to really pretend they were a happily married couple.
The night everything changed was one such scenario. His family was supposed to be in Chicago, some wise guy’s promotion ceremony after Capone got sent up for tax evasion of all fucking things. This time, Anthony got out of attending because they were waiting on a shipment. They were going to be gone for a week, and Anthony had the house to himself. He thought he was safe. He thought they were safe.
Boy, was he fucking wrong. Two days into a week alone with Henry, playing house, they had been getting hot and heavy on the couch in the sitting parlor. Henry was on top, slotted between Anthony’s legs, pressing heated kisses to his pulse point as his hand unbuttoned Anthony’s shirt. The sounds of Louis Armstrong blowing his trumpet had silenced other sounds, and it wasn’t until Henry suddenly slumped unconscious against him, that Anthony realized just how badly he fucked up.
“Dad?” he whispered, his voice trembling as he saw his father standing above them, his chest heaving, and a lead pipe soaked in blood in his left hand.
The last thing Anthony saw was that pipe coming down at him.
When Anthony woke up, his head was killing him, and his vision was blurry, but he managed to make out where he was. One of the abandoned warehouses on the docks under their control. Anthony couldn’t move, and he realized he was tied to a chair.
That was when his vision focused enough and he saw Henry on the ground, bruises littering his skin, yellowing and horrific, two large black eyes having sealed his eyes shut. But he was breathing, his chest was moving up and down.
“Hal!” Anthony cried out, the tears streaming down his face. The ropes burned from how hard he desperately tried to wriggle out of their constraint.
“Oh, so the Buck’s got a name does he?” Carmine Galente spat that derogatory slur as he emerged from the shadows, holding a steel baseball bat.
“Please let him go,” Anthony begged, fighting even harder against the ropes. “Please, Dad. Do whatever you gotta do to me, but please. I’ll do whatever you say, I’ll–”
“Shut the fuck up, frocio!” He looked truly disgusted and slammed the bat into Henry’s kneecap, a horrific cracking sound echoing as Henry cried out in pain.
“Hal, baby, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!” Anthony cried, still desperately trying to get out of the damn ropes. He fucked up, he fucked up so bad, and Anthony knew his father was going to kill them.
Carmine yanked Henry up by his hair, showing his bruised and bloodied face to Anthony, and said, “You got anything to say for defiling my son, you piece of shit?”
Henry, despite the obvious pain he was in, said, “I love you, Anthony. You were the best thing that ever happened to me, and whatever happens, know that I will always love you.”
Before Anthony could respond, tell that man how much he loved him too, Carmine dropped Henry again, raised the bat, and slammed the handle right into Henry’s skull. The sickening crunch sound was exacerbated by the way blood splattered all over Carmine’s white pants.
“No!” Anthony screamed, the tears blurring his vision. Oh, fuck. What the actual fuck? The bile rose fast, and Anthony leaned over as far as the ropes allowed, vomiting all over the cement floor. “You fucking evil prick!” Anthony cried. He had never felt such pain in his life, his heart literally breaking at witnessing the love of his life get murdered by this evil man.
“What did you say, boy?” Carmine growled as he wiped the blood off the bat with a towel. He started walking toward Anthony.
Maybe… maybe if he pissed his dad off enough, he’d kill Anthony fast, and then he would get to be with Henry again. “Fuck you! I fucking hate you!”
Carmine let out a cruel laugh and stopped right in front of Anthony before he swung the bat, and slammed it into Anthony’s right kneecap.
The pain was immediate, and the nausea returned with a vengeance. Anthony cried out in pain, and said through gritted teeth, “That all you fucking got, pussy?”
That time, Carmine raised his hand and gave him a back handed slap across the face. He then leaned in and said, “I know what you want, fottuto frocio. And I ain’t gonna give it to you. You’re gonna live, and live with the knowledge that fucker is dead because of you, because you let him defile you. Maybe this’ll teach you a fucking lesson.” And then Carmine slammed the bat into Anthony’s other leg, right against his shin bone.
Anthony couldn’t even feel the pain in his legs anymore, because the break of his heart hurt so much more.
In the four months it took Anthony to recover from multiple leg fractures, he spent that time plotting, planning, and making arrangements. The fractures were so severe, he required surgery and rod placements, which the doctors said would give him longer legs, but they were convinced his recovery would go smoothly.
While bedbound, there wasn’t much he could do, but when he started rehabilitation to ensure he had full mobility once he was completely healed, that was where his plan started to grow legs. It started off simple, and worked out in his favor, because his father’s current mistress was a rehabilitation nurse, and stupidly, the man probably thought he was being clever by being able to bring her into the home under the guise of helping Anthony heal.
Sofia was a lithe, tall blonde woman, with a peach tan skin color, a crooked smile, and impressive chest. She had green eyes and a pouty mouth, and even though she was wearing a blue and white nurse’s uniform that covered most of her body, she still somehow made it look whoreish. His father had a type, and Anthony hated how often said type looked like his sister, Molly. That just solidified his plan.
It started off innocently enough. Anthony had been practicing mimicking Sofia’s voice. Hell, the dumb bitch even helped him, when he asked about her Boston accent and how nice he said it sounded. As his recovery continued, and he was able to walk again, that was when he started prying more information out of her. The clubs she frequented, how she met his father, where they usually went when there wasn’t a convenient caregiver excuse, that sort of thing.
The last day of her “employment”, Anthony had hugged her and thanked her for everything, and despite the fact he hated her, he actually did mean it. She was going to be the broken brick of the downfall of Carmine Galente. After that, he used the little bit of freedom he had to get his hands on a syringe and some top grade laudanum from a pharmacy for his “pain”.
With the use of a payphone and a perfected mimic, Anthony lured Carmine Galente to a motel just outside the city limits. Sofia had called it “their place”. They always booked room six, and Anthony was ready and waiting, in a borrowed dress from Molly, a borrowed wig from his mother, and a pair of heels that gave him even more length than his new legs. He kept the lights of the musty smelling motel room off, and stood by the window, waiting patiently when headlights flashed across.
In under a couple of minutes, the door was being pushed open. Carmine let out a gruff, “Baby, you don’t know how much I need this.” And he approached Anthony, still not able to see his face.
With the speed of a deadly bug, Anthony was on him, jamming the syringe in his father’s neck and plunging the high dose directly into his blood stream. The moonlight brought both their faces to light, and his father looked shocked and dismayed, the drug working quickly as he tried to claw at Anthony’s hand. “Hi, Dad.” Anthony spat before he released the man and watched him collapse to the ground.
Anthony quickly got to work, lifting the unconscious body of his father to a chair, tying him up exactly how the bastard had tied him up that awful, life-ending night, and made sure all the curtains were drawn. It took his father a good hour before he came to, and by that time, Anthony was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding a knife and a good ol’ Tommy gun resting on the mattress behind him. He wouldn’t have to worry about bothering any neighbors, because Anthony made sure to buy out every room of the motel for the night.
“What the fuck?” Carmine grumbled as he blinked his eyes open and finally saw Anthony in the yellow light of the shitty bedside lamp.
“Have a nice nap?” Anthony asked, sounding a little bored.
A string of angry Italian slipped past his father’s chapped lips from the dry mouth laudanum causes. “You fucking–”
“Frocio, yeah, yeah. I know. Well, Dad, this little frocio is going to make sure you never hurt another person, ever again,” Anthony said as he moved to stand. He approached his father and viciously grabbed the man by the thinning hair on his head before he stuffed a dirty sock in his mouth. “Don’t want you making too much noise right now.”
Carmine’s eyes widened when Anthony brandished the knife, and he started struggling fruitlessly against his restraints, trying to say something but successfully being muffled by his gag.
Anthony started on his father’s left hand. His shooting and maiming hand. He stabbed the tip of the knife at the base of his trigger finger, relishing in the muffled scream of his father. He proceeded to wiggle the blade until it severed the digit from his hand. “That… that was for every poor bastard that got taken out by you.”
While he would have liked to cut every single finger off the man, he did not want there to be any chance for him to slip through the restraints. Instead, he stood straight and used the back of his hand to slap the bastard across his face. “That? That’s for me.” Then Anthony took the knife and plunged it in his lower abdomen.
His father made a choking, gurgling sound against the gag and his head fell forward.
Anthony yanked his head up by his hair and locked eyes. “That… was for Henry. And this?” Anthony then slammed the knife between his father’s legs, and from the wail of a cry that escaped, he knew he hit one of the bastard’s testicles. “This was for Mama, you piece of fucking shit.” The urge to spit on him was overwhelming, but the bastard would get nothing more out of Anthony Galente.
Carmine was losing a lot of blood, and his eyelids were drooping. The prick wasn’t going to stay conscious, and while the thought of torturing this bastard a little more was appealing, Anthony needed to get to work setting the stage.
When Carmine fell unconscious again, Anthony quickly untied him and took him to the bed. He sprawled him out, and shortly after, shoved the cut off digit into his mouth in place of the gag. The bastard was still breathing, but it was crackling, a real death rattle.
Anthony took all the cash out of Carmine’s wallet, his car keys, and then took hold of the Tommy gun that had been waiting patiently for its part in all this. After he took a step back, Anthony started firing, riddling Carmine Galente with countless bullets, and making a point to hit parts of the wall and headboard. This way, it would look like a hit.
Still in his head-to-toe disguise, Anthony grabbed his things, and left the scene just as a light in the motel lobby clicked on. He hopped in his father’s car, heading west without once ever looking back. When he passed the state line, he pulled over, took off the license plates to toss them down the ravine next to the road, and collapsed against the trunk as sobs wracked his body.
He was mourning not getting to say goodbye to his twin, to his mother, mourning the loss of the man he loved with his entire being, but he was not mourning the piece of shit he left at the motel. Anthony knew he would need to change his name and get as far away from the five families as he could. Henry mentioned once wanting to move to California, and so, once he got ahold of himself, he got back in the car and started making his way to the sunshine state.
The first year in California, Anthony had gotten by doing odd jobs under the table, but he was fast running out of money, and when some john at a club offered him twenty bucks for a blow job, Anthony agreed. Before long, he was cruisin’, getting paid for his mouth and feeling the hole in his heart where Henry used to live grow larger each day. That was, until one of the johns who viciously fucked his throat gave him this weird powder a couple of chemists had cooked up years earlier.
And holy fuck, that shit took Anthony immediately away from the here and now, and he was able to fade into a fantasy land. Anthony would later find out that powder was referred to as “angel dust”, a hallucinogenic that worked like a charm. Every time he took it, whoever the man was using his mouth for relief would immediately turn into Henry. Anthony didn’t even have to close his eyes anymore.
It wasn’t until a year into his new role, his new work, that men wanted more than a blow job. The first guy… he didn’t ask, he just took, but thankfully the angel dust did its job, and despite the roughness, the pain, he could still pretend he was in the loving embrace of the only man he had ever, and would ever, love. The prick, after finishing inside of Anthony, dropped an extra couple of twenties on the ground next to him, and he realized he could charge a lot more if he sold his ass.
Not that that helped with things like bills, because every extra dollar he made went right in the pocket of his dealer. The more he let strange men fuck him, the higher he needed to be, because sometimes the roughness would bleed through the fantasy, and Henry would turn into the ugly, balding, pot-bellied freak slam-fucking into Anthony. He couldn’t have that.
Years flew by in a haze of drugs and sex, both wanted and not. He would have made a joke about a guardian angel considering he never got caught in a raid, but there was no way. When Anthony reached his thirty-third birthday, he was… finally done. The poison in his veins pushed him to the brink, and he realized he had nothing to live for, no reason to see a tomorrow. So, he arranged a particularly brutal gangbang, which would get him enough money to buy what he needed, and a day after that fucking abuse, he bought enough angel dust to send him to fucking Heaven, or at least he hoped.
Anthony sprawled out on the bed, snorting as much of the magic powder as he could. He had no idea how much by the time his body felt sluggish, and breathing grew difficult, and he laid down to go to sleep. Just a little shut eye, then he would plan to snort the rest of it.
When Angel had woken up, it was in Hell, and the reality that he would never see Henry again hit him like a ton of bricks. There was no doubt Henry was in Heaven, and Angel realized the way he lived his life after he lost the man he loved, he really shouldn’t have expected any kind of reunion. So, he did what he spent the end half of his life doing, sucking, fucking, snorting, and finding even more ways to get high.
The one plus side of Hell was overdosing wasn’t really a thing, so Angel could do drugs until he was literally blue in the face, and he would be fine after a day or two, maybe hungover, but nothing more than that. Angel embraced sin and when Val happened, he accepted that as just part of his punishment for being the cause of the murder of the sweetest, kindest, most wonderful man who ever lived.
Things could’ve been worse, but under Val’s thumb he was a famous porn star, wanted by countless demons in the entirety of the Pentagram, and paid to suck, fuck, and given all the drugs he could possibly need to get through it, especially when Val’s kink of the week bordered more on the sadistic side. A routine and lot in his afterlife that became his norm until Charlie.
Charlie fucking Morningstar. Sure, when he first met her and the stoic, grumpy girlfriend Vaggie, he had laughed them off for their idea and hopes to redeem sinners. There ain’t nothin’ Angel could do to redeem himself, but when the deal came with free room and board, well… Drugs were expensive and he could use a leg up when he got it. It wasn’t like Val would let Angel stay in his dressing room for free. And the less time he spent around that prick, the better for his physical health.
Angel did not believe in anything Charlie had to say, and only passively participated in whatever fucking stupid exercises she had come up with at the last minute to try and redeem him. That was… until Charlie said something that stuck with Angel in the most uncomfortable of ways.
“Isn’t there someone in Heaven you’d like to see again?”
Fuck. Yes. A man, a kind man. An honest man, with rough thumbs from how he held his saxophone, with a voice smooth as honey and eyes that saw deep down into Angel’s soul. With a sweet kiss and a firm stroke. A man that could have given him a real future, but instead met his demise years too early because Anthony was stupid, and the son of a fucking psychopath.
That was when Angel started taking the redemption shit seriously, and fuck, he thought he had been making progress, until he found out to what extent all of the goddamn Vees had been using him, not just that cuntfuck Val. How Vox manipulated everything by hypnotizing Angel into being a rat on the hotel. Never getting to be the one to make a choice in his afterlife.
So, Angel did what he was good at. He ran away… he gave up.
*****
“Christ, you really are high. Angel! For fuck’s sake, I said you need to pack your goddamn shit!” Val growled, slapping Angel across the face.
Joke was on that fucker. The trip down memory lane hurt way more than anything Valentino could do to him right now. “Are…” Angel starts to ask, the fog clearing more and more as he starts to sober up, “...you done with me?” Angel asks and he hates how much hope blooms in his chest. He really does hope he has become broken enough for Val to end things with him, maybe even rip up his contract.
Val rolls those for shit eyes and grabs a suitcase, throwing it at Angel. “For the next six months anyway.”
Angel shakes his head, even more confused now, and he is way too fucked up to understand Val’s cryptic bullshit. An unfortunate habit he picked up from Vox. “Val, I’m barely understanding English right now. I don’t understand.”
With an exaggerated sigh and another dramatic flourish, the moth demon growls, “Since I’ve taken over Voxtek, I haven’t had time to deal with all your bullshit, but weirdly enough, someone wants to. You’ve been hired for a residency at that shitty casino you perform at sometimes.”
The Magic Kat? A residency? What in the knock off Vegas shit? “What does that mean?”
“The owner paid up front for you to perform nightly at that shithole.”
Angel furrowed his brow. “Who’s the owner?”
Val scoffs in disgust. “How the fuck should I know? He’s a guy with money and a hard-on for a broken whore I’m guessing. And honestly? I’m fucking sick of how many shoots I’ve had to reschedule because you’re too fucked up. Can’t even punish you for it, because you’re barely conscious most of the time, so, if some poor sucker wants to overpay for a used up slut with no real talent for six months, and give me a little peace, I’m gonna take it.” Val shakes his head and adds, “So, pack your shit. You’re officially on loan to the Magic Kat.”
Well, it isn’t like Angel has a choice in any part of his life ever, so with a heavy heart, Angel starts stuffing the few meager items he owns into the hot pink suitcase Val chucked at him and his black duffel. This will likely be another deserved punishment, and it isn’t like Angel should expect anything less. He is in Hell after all.